


you come and go

by mainland



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainland/pseuds/mainland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kang Seungyoon is a political activist and Lee Seunghoon is an aspiring artist. The only overlap in their lives is a soon-to-be-discontinued bus route.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you come and go

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ and written for winnerexchange.

**August 26, 1986**  
  
Kang Seungyoon notices the guy on the bus on the first day of second term.  
  
He had left the apartment late that morning and barely reached the street stop in time, managing to stick a hand and foot inside the bus's back doors as they rattled and started to close. Lurching up the steps, he was stopped twice halfway: first by a jolt of pain when his guitar case banged against his knee, and the second time by the fringed scarf at his waist getting caught in the doors. It took a painful two minutes to free himself under the impatient stares of the other passengers, and another minute to dig out his fare while carrying his undone scarf and a tangled belt of pom-poms.  
  
Then, after he'd dumped his coins on the collector's table and climbed into a free seat, as he was trying to thread his scarf and his pom-poms back through his belt loops, someone muttered: "I would've picked one or the other."  
  
He looked up, and met the gaze of a guy across from him, who appeared faintly surprised as though he hadn't expected Seungyoon to hear him. The guy hesitated, and then shrugged a shoulder companionably, like he was sorry, not for his unsolicited fashion critique, but about the moment in general.  
  
The exchange had left Seungyoon feeling dissatisfied, and even now, twenty minutes later, he finds himself glancing over and frowning. The guy is tall and lanky, slightly handsome in the provincial way of a senior who helps out at the corner store on weekends, and he wears the wide khaki pants and oversized waterproof zip-up of a dockworker - all together, not the usual kind of person to offer Seungyoon style advice. The guy's face is turned towards the window and he's wearing earbuds that connect to a lime green Walkman. Seungyoon can't remember if he's seen him before.  
  
They both ride the bus to the subway stop. Soojung is already waiting when they pull into Beomeosa Station, standing on the curb with her boyfriend and a thick roll of poster boards under her arm. The guy steps off the bus before Seungyoon and disappears into the subway tunnel, head and shoulders rising above the rest of the crowd.  
  
"Oh my god, what are you wearing?"  
  
"Shush," replies Seungyoon to Soojung. He cuts a glare to Nam Taehyun, who looks offended. A shady art student from Gwangju County, he and Soojung have been dating for four months now, which leaves another two before Taehyun earns humane treatment from Seungyoon. "Do you know who wore this? Boy George, in the booklet of his new CD. Taehyun, do you know who Boy George is?" Seungyoon's been emulating the looks of overseas rock stars ever since he first heard Bon Jovi in high school, taking his inspiration straight from the pages of imported magazines.  
  
"It's not  _his_  CD, it's the band - " starts Taehyun.  
  
"Did you staple your jeans too tight?" Soojung pinches Seungyoon hard on the arm. "Taehyun gave me that album and I lent it to you."  
  
"Doesn't sound familiar." Seungyoon sniffs, and earns another pinch. "Hey, let's hurry, we're going to be late. I can already hear Kibum-hyung complaining into his megaphone."  
  
"I told you to take an earlier bus." Soojung scolds as they scurry downstairs. The subway has only been open for a year, but Seungyoon takes it at least five times a week, back and forth, to the downtown districts or the campus. There used to be a rapid bus that did the route too, but the service was cancelled three days after the subway began running.  
  
"Amazing how fast this country can modernize when it wants to," Seungyoon mutters to himself, and Taehyun snorts.  
  
  
  
  
In the train ahead of Kang Seungyoon, the guy with the lime green Walkman stands holding a box of fresh, dirt-dusted vegetables, having offered his seat to a granny on her way back from the morning market. He bends his head to make light conversation with her, spelling his name in the air when she asks -  _Lee Seung-hoon_  - and makes sure to pass her vegetable box to a friendly junior high boy before he disembarks and takes an express connection to the port, where he arrives to unload a shrimp boat and kiss its owner's son behind the crates.  
  
  
  
  
The second time they cross paths, it's under completely different circumstances.  
  
Seungyoon is waiting for the last bus, on the way home from a late-night rally meeting at Huh Gak's place. There are a few other stragglers at the stop: two drunk salarymen leaning on each other, a third dozing alone on the bench, and a college student with a bedroll strapped to a large backpack. The rest of the drop-off platform is deserted, leaving Seungyoon a clear view of both the street and the Beomeosa Station entrance, but he doesn't recognize the man who emerges from the subway until he's a metre away and Seungyoon sees the Walkman in his hand. The guy is whistling softly, tapping his foot to whatever beat plays through his earbuds. The corner of his mouth lifts when he spots Seungyoon, but he turns away to face the street once he joins the bus line.  
  
Seungyoon shifts discreetly for a better view, his previous conceptions about the guy falling apart. The guy has traded in his workman uniform for a boxy satin-front denim jacket and a stud-collared shirt. He looks like one of the sales assistants in Seomyeon, sent out to loiter by the storefronts dressed in the month's latest trends, except his light jeans are tucked into dirty cowboy boots instead of new sneakers. He smells faintly like he's been drinking. Maybe he did just get off work; being employed by a clothing shop would explain their last encounter.  
  
Seungyoon pictures the guy with an odd collection of part-time jobs. He's never seen him on the bus during the student commute hours, so he figures maybe the guy doesn't attend school. Then again, neither does Seungyoon, having dropped out after his first year at Pusan University, but he still makes the commute because most of his friends live near campus and that's where the organizing for the protests is done.  
  
After a while, he recognizes the song being whistled as Nami's hit from two years ago, the one people used to always request from him, and Seungyoon's fingers automatically curl to strum a few chords on his guitar. The college student eyeballs him, and Seungyoon coughs, pretends he'd hit the strings by accident. He knows he looks either stupid or pretentious with his guitar slung over his chest instead of inside its case, but his case is filled with protest pamphlets and posters from the night's meeting. Normally he carries the guitar case alone and leaves his instrument at home, but today he'd done some actual busking in the afternoon since his mom's store isn't doing well enough to meet their rent.  
  
The bus arrives and they board in single file. Seungyoon is entirely conscious of the guy behind him, of the long arm that reaches out after him to pay the fare. It's not that he's interested, but the guy's playful demeanour and multi-faceted persona intrigue on a dull transit ride. The way anyone you pay attention to becomes a flickering flame on the edge of your vision, his presence has a faint heat.  
  
Seungyoon takes a seat at the very back of the bus. The guy sits in the front.  
  
  
  
  
The other students teased him for not finishing even half of his second beer, but Lee Seunghoon is just thankful he's still upright. It'll be a miracle if he can stay awake on this bus and not miss his stop; he deliberately picked a seat near the driver so that if he falls asleep he won't be forgotten on board. Already his eyes are slipping shut. He knows he's a lightweight and usually avoids drinking too much, but his teacher from the night school invited the class out to celebrate her engagement and pressed him with two rounds of shots. Everyone at the bar had complimented his jacket and Seunghoon had gotten to boast about how he'd sewn on the satin panels himself, but now he's utterly drunk.  
  
He's so drunk he keeps forgetting if he'd imagined someone playing guitar to the chorus of "Round and Round" while they were waiting for the bus or if it had been real, and keeps checking over the back of his seat to remember yes, that one kid with the awful fashion sense does have a guitar, though it doesn't explain why that would've happened or how he knew what song Seunghoon was listening to. Seunghoon stifles a yawn. The more he thinks about it the less sense it makes. Maybe it was a coincidence. More likely, a delusion, conjured by the part of his mind that takes note of the boy every time they meet.  
  
  
  
  
That weekend, Kang Seungyoon fills his guitar case with protest signs and tucks an extra sheaf of posters inside his leather jacket. He slaps them on the buildings and trees he passes on his way to the bus stop, careful that no one sees him do it.  
  
Yesterday, Soojung had phoned to let him know Taehyun had been arrested.  
  
The two had been downtown spreading the word about an upcoming march when they were stopped by a couple of police. It got a little rough, Taehyun got a little disrespectful, and once the officers found the posters in Taehyun's bag, it was all over. Soojung and Eunji tried to see him afterwards at the station and were immediately barred from entry.  
  
"He's so fucking careless," Seungyoon had told her, furious.  
  
"Stop it. He was defending me." Soojung had snapped, and then, "You know how much he looks up to you."  
  
It's not the first time one of them's been taken into custody. Usually they're allowed to pay bail after a couple of weeks and the detainee is released a little worse for the wear, but reports of escalating mistreatment combined with Taehyun's volatile temperament have Seungyoon especially worried. He's going down to the station with Huh Gak later in the morning. In these situations, three things have become routine necessities: Seungyoon's diplomacy, Huh Gak's experience, and a discreet envelope of cash from what Kibum calls their deals-with-the-devil fund.  
  
He ducks into one more alleyway before the bus stop to put up the last of his posters, and abruptly rears back behind a large dumpster. The guy from the bus is a few paces away, standing next to another man.  
  
Seungyoon squeezes himself against the dumpster, hoping he hadn't been loud enough to catch their attention. He's about to slide out into the street again as quietly as possible when the guy laughs and firmly pushes the other man till his back meets the alley wall. The stranger is slightly shorter, enough so the guy can make a show of bending his neck to whisper in the man's ear. They hold that position like statues, the other man twitching and growing progressively redder until he bursts out laughing and tries to break free, and the guy immediately presses his knee between the man's legs and kisses him on the mouth.  
  
Seungyoon's posters crumple in his fingers. He can't form a single thought, his entire brain burning up with the image in front of him. The guy is wearing a t-shirt and shorts that end a few inches below the tops of his thighs, the long muscles of his bare legs golden in the sunlight. He has a hand twisted in the other man's dark hair. They kiss for only a moment, lips parted, the guy briefly mouthing down the man's bared, bronzed neck. The actions are light, almost chaste, but so private and explicit aired in the open that Seungyoon feels winded.  
  
He's the same. Maybe not exactly - his last relationship was with a girl he used to sing with, but there have been men. Seungyoon's familiar enough that his shock and faint arousal are sliced by a growing edge of fear. Anybody could walk by and see -  _he's_  seeing it, for god's sake.  
  
It becomes a relief when the two men finally break apart, until Seungyoon realizes they're headed in his direction. He swears and scrambles on his hands and knees around the corner of the alley, not daring to stand until he's completely out of sight. He wipes the gravel from his pants and walks with his head lowered, trying to look busy and nonchalant. He only has one poster on him; Seungyoon hopes he hasn't left a trail with the rest.  
  
The footsteps catch up with him as he nears the bus stop, and he dares to look up. The guy is listening to his companion tell a joke; neither of them pay any attention to Seungyoon. When the bus arrives, Seungyoon feels safe enough to gesture for them to board first. He makes brief eye contact with the guy, who drops his eyes to the poster balled in Seungyoon's hand, but he turns away before Seungyoon can worry.  
  
He takes a seat behind them, across the aisle. From this close, Seungyoon has a good look at the stranger. Handsome, with a cheerful masculine face and strong brown arms. He wonders if that's the guy's type.  
  
As if summoned, the guy turns in his seat. "Hey," he says, "Excuse me. Were you on the last bus on Friday night?" His companion looks at Seungyoon curiously.  
  
Dumbfounded, Seungyoon points at himself and stutters. "Me? Uh, yes."  
  
"You had a guitar, right? I'm sorry to be strange, but did you play it? Before you got on the bus."  
  
Seungyoon flushes. "I did. Sorry, yeah. You were whistling, and I used to play that song a lot."  
  
The guy grins. "Thank god. I thought I heard you, but I couldn't figure out why you'd do that. I was so drunk I thought I made it up."  
  
"No, no. I definitely played it." Seungyoon insists, returning the smile. "I was the one being strange."  
  
"It was driving me crazy," the guy says. They both laugh a little.  
  
The bus picks up another set of passengers, and the fare collector stands up after the doors close. "Pardon the interruption. This is an announcement to inform you this route will no longer be in service after December 19. Please note, this bus will no longer be running after December 19."  
  
Murmurs fill the bus. Seungyoon exchanges glances with the guy, who seems equally puzzled.  
  
"Oh." The guy's companion snaps his fingers. "It's the new subway opening nearby. It's going to connect to Beomeosa Station. No one'll need the buses after that."  
  
"Nearby where?" the guy demands.  
  
"It's a couple streets down. They've been doing construction all summer, Seunghoon-hyung. You've probably seen it, they're building above ground."  
  
Seungyoon nods slowly. He's probably seen it too without realizing. Construction is a part of the scenery now, with the rapid transit networks being built all over the country. The city buses are disappearing one by one, run by small local companies that know where they're no longer needed. He meets the guy's eyes again for a moment before they both look away, awkwardly returning to themselves. The subways are so frequent and so crowded, it wouldn't matter if they take the same route.  
  
  
  
  
They see each other a few times after that, but only briefly and with no reason to interact, though Lee Seunghoon still likes to give the boy a brief head-to-toe scan. Seunghoon had noticed him weeks before their first inadvertent exchange, appalled by how poorly tailored his jeans were - trimmed down the sides with probably kitchen scissors and stapled to be skin tight. As someone who prides himself on his style, Seunghoon gets a kick out of the boy's outfits. He's obviously fashioning himself after a specific idea, toting that guitar everywhere, though what that is beyond "rock 'n' rags," Seunghoon has no idea. The boy is lucky he's good looking, with his heavy eyes and beestung mouth.  
  
He's the first one Seunghoon looks for on the bus. Second is the female office worker who always rides at noon. She wears the reddest lipstick Seunghoon has ever seen, perfectly applied, and he's never heard her make a sound, not even when the bus jolts and throws everyone off balance. There's also a grandfather on the late bus who carries an empty, bright orange tote that has Seunghoon wondering who he's visited, and what he brought them. After that, the salarymen and the school children: how the men nap during their rides, the condition of their cuffs and shoes, what kind of hairstyle the kids all wear. Seunghoon likes to pay attention, collecting these visible details of everyday life as inspiration for his street performance group.  
  
Recently, he's been running low on new ideas. They had a show tonight on one of the main streets in Seomyeon and it drew one of their smallest crowds yet. Seunghoon will readily admit none of their group are exceptionally talented. Not in singing, dancing, or acting; they survive on his innovation. He always wonders what he's expecting to happen, performing skits and dance routines with a half-baked troupe; who he thinks will swoop down and save him from the streets; when he'll go back to school and get a real job.  
  
The train pulls into Beomeosa Station and he lets himself be pushed out with the crowd, shedding those worries with a mental shrug. No matter how hard he tries, Seunghoon can't picture himself as anything but a performer.  
  
On the other hand, mental visualization won't feed him. He climbs the steps out of the station, peeking in his bag with the hope that he'd underestimated the money they'd collected. He sticks his finger in and sifts the few bills, counting in his head. He'll probably have to take a few extra jobs at the port to pay his bills.  
  
An engine rumbles, and his head jerks up to see his bus drawing away from the curb.  
  
"Fuck!"  
  
Seunghoon makes a run for it, but doesn't get three steps before something collides with his back and sends him sprawling. His bag bursts open, coins spraying in every direction like silver raindrops.  
  
"Fuck!" He curses again, scrambling upright.  
  
"Shit, shit, sorry." Whoever ran into him grabs at his leg, like that will help - Seunghoon shakes them off, and looks down impatiently.  
  
The boy with the awful fashion sense is on the ground, surrounded by scattered papers. He winces when he sees Seunghoon. "Shit," he says empathetically. "I am so sorry. Fuck, the bus is gone." His face is flushed and sweaty, and he keeps missing and fumbling with the papers he's trying to pick up. He's drunk, Seunghoon realizes.  
  
"Awesome," Seunghoon says. He grabs his bag and ignores the boy until he's sure he's collected every single penny on the platform. When he's done, he scoops up a few of the papers to help, and the boy puts out a hand as if to stop him. Seunghoon looks at the papers.  _DEMOCRACY TODAY!_  jumps out in bold characters, above a picture of an assembly of Korean citizens.  
  
"I thought you were a musician," he comments, gesturing to the boy's open guitar case with no instrument in sight. It's not taboo - half the students Seunghoon speaks to these days are openly in favour of the democratic movement, but these are nothing good to be caught distributing, especially not in the President's home region.  
  
"I am," the boy replies after a moment, wobbly. "Just - not now." He accepts the posters and doesn't protest when Seunghoon helps him gather the rest. "Sorry for making you miss the bus."  
  
Seunghoon waves his hand. "I was going to miss it anyway. Just be thankful it wasn't the last one."  
  
They go to the empty bus stop and sit on the bench a foot apart. The boy carefully stands his guitar case between his knees and rests his chin on top. It doesn't look like he drank to celebrate. The shadows beneath his eyes are purple, matching the tips of his shivering fingers. Autumn has set in since they last spoke.  
  
"Rough night?" Seunghoon asks.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
A few minutes pass.  
  
"One of my friends is in - trouble." The boy taps his guitar case pointedly. "He's been in trouble for a while, and I can't get him out of it."  
  
"That sucks," says Seunghoon. "How's he holding up?"  
  
The boy stares at the ground. "I don't know. We can't visit him."  
  
"That fucking sucks," says Seunghoon louder, and the boy laughs.  
  
They lapse into a short silence.  
  
"And you?" The boy reaches across Seunghoon's lap to graze his bag. "That's a lot of metal. Are you a musician?"  
  
"No, I dance. Act a bit, sing less. Maybe I should be though. I’d probably earn more that way."  
  
"Nice. I busk for the money sometimes. Used to want to be a singer."  
  
"I don't know how much longer I'll last out there," Seunghoon confesses, all of a sudden. He lowers his head. It's not something he admits often, even to himself, and he's not sure his heart is convinced even if it's true. He would probably try to starve and die first before he gave up, like some dumb animal. He wants to confide something though, equal return for what the boy shared with him.  
  
The boy reaches out again and grasps Seunghoon's wrist. "I always wondered if I was just wasting my time," he agrees, absently thumbing the groove of Seunghoon's pulse. "You should last as long as you can, though. I wish I was still singing."  
  
"You should do it again," Seunghoon offers, but it's a gentle platitude. You stop chasing a dream as fickle as this, wholly stop, and it feels like your shoes are filled with a hundred pounds of lead when you try to run again. The boy's answering nod says as much. His eyes are wistful, but they haze when they catch on Seunghoon's mouth, and Seunghoon supposes he has the alcohol to thank for the way the boy becomes distracted. He thinks about where he's seen those posters before.  
  
"The day they told us about the bus being cancelled," he begins. "I was with my friend. Broad guy, not a lot of hair? We thought we saw you when we were cutting through the alley."  
  
The boy stiffens. "I'm not sure," he says. "You might have."  
  
"Did you see us?"  
  
The boy's fingers, forgotten around his wrist, tighten their grip. His eyelids flutter and Seunghoon feels a little bad for confronting him in an inebriated state, but he wants to know.  
  
"Seung...hoon," the boy says slowly. "That's what your friend called you."  
  
"Yes." Seunghoon's the one staring now.  
  
The boy licks his lips, and Seunghoon has to dip forward to hear the exhale of his reply: "I did."  
  
Seunghoon moves his face with intent - but then the boy flinches back, eyes squeezed shut, the red of his mouth flooding pink and white as the approaching bus's headlights wash across his face.  
  
  
  
  
Taehyun’s mother had arrived in the city earlier that afternoon. The police permitted her half an hour in front of his cell, but wouldn’t accept the toiletries or change of clothes she’d brought for him all the way from Gyeonggi. That was all she would tell them once she got out of the station and Eunji ushered everyone inside the nearest food tent to avoid catching attention on the street. His mother sat dry-eyed in the center of their group, clutching her bag in her lap, while Eunji greeted the server in a bright voice and ordered half a dozen bottles of soju. She wouldn’t answer any of their questions about how Taehyun was doing or what he looked like, and stiffly excused herself after barely a minute. Soojung went with her.  
  
The rest of them stayed and drank the soju that was brought to their table. The more they drank the looser the anger in their chests became, like hot fireworks unfurling. Seungyoon listened to Huh Gak drafting and discarding different plans of action and Kibum's bitter commentary and found he could do nothing but clutch his own clammy bottle against his sternum, occasionally dragging it up to fill his dry mouth. He had felt lightheaded, with fear of the storm brewing on their horizon, and with a burgeoning, reckless fury. The feeling returns now, as Seungyoon rests his forehead against the bus window, curling in the bottom of his stomach to join another more intimate discomfort; the one from the ludicrous part of him that keeps thinking of Seunghoon in the seats behind him, about how close they were before the bus interrupted.  
  
  
  
  
It snows for the first time that year in the second week of December. Lee Seunghoon catches the tiny flakes on his tongue as he waits for his best friend at a downtown intersection, having just come from an afternoon of unloading cargo at the port. He’s still in his workman’s uniform and he has the sleeves rolled up his forearms, high spots of colour in his face from the manual labour. And other forms of physical exertion, Seunghoon thinks slyly to himself. His favourite boat had been in port today, the one supervised by the captain’s son with enormous doe eyes.  
  
Something smacks the back of his head. “What’s that lecherous look on your face for.”  
  
Seunghoon grabs the offender around the bicep, digging his fingers into their armpit. “Just thinking about your sweet ass.”  
  
“Oh my god you jerk, let go,” Song Minho whines. “And never say that again, it’s sleazy and I can’t bear it.”  
  
Seunghoon tortures him a little more before letting him off. “Fine. See if my dick ever darkens the door of your -”  
  
"Augh, no!" Minho yells, but he's laughing.  
  
They head off across the square towards the flea markets, because Minho always wants to shop after he gets paid, and Seunghoon loves hanging around Minho when he's in the mood to spend money. He tells Minho as much, and gets promptly shoved into a rack of women's underwear. The store clerk gives him a dirty look when he's plucking the panties off his head, but it's worth it an hour later when Minho gets hungry and ends up buying stuffed sausages for the both of them. He tells this to Minho too.  
  
It's twilight by the time they've exhausted their tour of the shops. They're strolling down one of the main streets crowded with night peddlers, looking for a place to rest their feet and down a few drinks, when Seunghoon hears the croon of a startlingly familiar voice. He spins around, and there's the boy from the bus - in front of a microphone stand on the corner of the street, strumming a guitar with the case open at his feet. For one brief, absurd moment, Seunghoon feels shell-shocked. It's the first time he's seen the boy outside of taking the bus, and their recent encounters have been strange and dreamlike enough that the change in context is jarring, as though all of a sudden the boy’s become more real.  
  
Minho nudges him, but Seunghoon tells him to wait. The boy has just begun warming up his voice and already a couple of curious passersby have paused to listen.  
  
By the time the boy gets halfway through his first song, the audience has tripled. He has the kind of voice that could genuinely top charts and Seunghoon is struck with a twinge of envy. He can’t believe this boy  _used_  to want to be a singer, past tense. Seunghoon wants to go up afterwards and scold him about it, except they don’t know each other. Seunghoon doesn’t even know his name. They only pass in transit, meeting in spaces that they’re already leaving. Seeing him perform on the street, both feet firmly on the ground, is a new possibility. Seunghoon hasn’t been serious about anyone in a long time, but here a boy is standing in front of him, singing with a cold-pink nose and red hands, and he feels a buoyant pull in his chest.  
  
Three songs later, he finally lets himself be steered away. "Who was that?" Minho asks.  
  
"I'll let you know,” Seunghoon promises.  
  
  
  
  
The big march is planned for the last day of the year, a trek that will start from the front gates of Pusan National University and sweep downtown to end at City Hall. Kang Seungyoon and the rest of the organizers begin to rile the city weeks in advance, papering walls with protest bulletins and holding small daily demonstrations. Seungyoon cuts corners on being discreet, acting faster and looser than he has since his delinquent junior high years. He makes new posters: ones with President Chun Doohwan's face, blown up and struck through with an angry red slash.  
  
  
  
  
The last time Lee Seunghoon sees the boy is on the opening day of the new subway station.  
  
He boards at Yangjeong after a performance with his group, laden down with two bulging bags of costumes and props. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his own costume, which consists of only a cheap suit and a long umbrella; he’d played a gloomy office worker in the skit. Despite a slow start, it had been a good show. It’s just that the atmosphere everywhere is tense lately, and people’s gazes can’t stay still. Their eyes skip around, like if they’re fast enough they can catch something happening. Seunghoon’s seen the posters. He’ll be there on the day, along with most of the rest of the student body.  
  
The subway stops at the next station, City Hall. When the doors slide open, the boy with the guitar case enters the car, a foot away from where Seunghoon leans against the grab bars.  
  
Seunghoon’s mouth drops open, but he doesn’t have time to react because the boy is gasping for breath, pouring sweat and looking frantically over his shoulder. Seunghoon follows his line of sight.  
  
Three policemen are sprinting across the subway platform, batons drawn. They’re too close to miss this subway car, and Seunghoon makes a split decision just as the first one gets his foot inside the door. He lifts the tip of his umbrella, grabs the boy by the hand, and jabs the automatic button. The umbrella snaps open in the officer’s face and Seunghoon shoves him out of the way, dumping his bags in the arms of the other two policemen and leaping out of the car, boy in tow.  
  
Then they’re running. Seunghoon has no idea where he’s going, no plans in his head aside from putting one foot in front of the other as fast as possible. He only realizes they should’ve headed outside when they pass the stairs leading out of the station - he skids to a stop, swears, and starts running again - the police are too close for them to turn around. The end of the platform is approaching dangerously fast. Seunghoon slams through the next door they see.  
  
It’s the washrooms, and they look at each other, panicked.  
  
“Fuck, sorry,” Seunghoon gasps. “I fucked up.”  
  
“It’s okay.” The boy tells him, making a beeline for the back wall and clambering up on the radiator to try and force open the window. “Shit, it won’t open.”  
  
Seunghoon eyes the ventilator shaft, but there’s no way either of them can fit in there. The shouts outside are getting louder. “Quick, get in the first stall.”  
  
“They’re going to find us,” the boy says, but does it anyway. Seunghoon follows him inside and locks the door. These washrooms are new, outfitted with sitting toilets, and they both climb on the toilet seat, making sure they can’t be seen from under the stall. Seunghoon has to squat so his head doesn’t show over the top. Their breathing is too loud.  
  
“Sorry,” he gasps. “Oh my god. I don’t know what I was doing.”  
  
“You got me this far,” the boy says. “I was frozen in that station car.” He’s shaking now.  
  
“Now we’re both fucked,” Seunghoon says, trying to smile and failing. The numb terror pounding in his ears only subsides when he focuses on the other boy, and he tries to concentrate on that surge of responsibility. He has no fucking clue how they’re going to get out of this.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” the boy whispers. “You shouldn’t even be here.”  
  
Seunghoon shakes his head. He works on his breathing, trying to slow down his deafening heart. Neither of them should need to be here. “I saw you -” He swallows, throat painfully dry. Suddenly this is something he needs to say. Now that they’re out of options, their future narrowing into one grey point, it feels incredibly important. “Heard you, singing, I mean. It was incredible.”  
  
The boy’s mouth quirks. “Yeah?” he says. “Thanks.”  
  
“Goddammit,” says Seunghoon.  
  
The boy takes a deep breath. It’s a warning sound, and Seunghoon shoots him a glare. “Don’t -”  
  
“Thanks a lot, Seunghoon-ssi.” His right foot slides off the toilet and settles on the floor. “By the way, I’m Kang Seungyoon.”  
  
“What are you doing?” Seunghoon demands, even though it’s painfully clear. The police are right outside. In the second before they crash through the door, he imagines pushing the boy aside and throwing himself out first, but it’s a fantasy he can’t convince himself of. They don’t even know each other. The boy lowers his left leg, and squeezes Seunghoon’s hand, so briefly Seunghoon could’ve imagined it. Both feet firmly on the ground, Kang Seungyoon hurls himself out of the stall, knocking through the incoming policemen and out the door, leading them away.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The second section of [Busan Metro Line 1](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Busan_Metro_Line_1) (Nopodong to Beomeosa) opened in December 1986.  
> \- A major period of SK’s democratic reform movement was between 1980-1987, and protests were mainly led by students and labour unions.  
> \- Taehyun’s hometown is Hanam City, which was part of Gwangju County until 1989.  
> \- Huge apologies for everything I made up about Busan / 1986, especially the political details. I used historical events to anchor the plot but tried to keep it vague since I'm definitely not educated on the real thing. Hopefully nothing was too jarring or presumptuous...


End file.
